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Poem

The moon had got itself tangled up
in a glass telephone kiosk.
Tricks of light do not apply to moonlight,
for it is a ghost
haunting its face only through earthy reflections.
It looks to us to see it.

The city was strangely quiet,
motorcars grew distant,
Like shadows upon cobbled pathways,
the clip clop of horse's hooves
could be heard to be passing-by.

For a moment,
time had slipped, between the cracks of the pavement,
I was convinced that the moon
was trying to phone me.

Standing as still as any wind-swayed lamppost
I listened raptly,
eventually the dull roar of modern traffic came back.

The moon had broken free and had returned,
to the darkening sky.

In the empty telephone booth
an old fashioned, Bakelite receiver
dangled from its curled chord,
while the night eerily hummed on.

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